


Obsolete

by RenaRoo



Series: RvB Angst War [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4424792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenaRoo/pseuds/RenaRoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're growing old together, doing all the things they weren't able to when they were young. Be a couple with a fresh start, but their pasts won't let them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obsolete

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/gifts).



> Prompt: ( goodluckdetective ) I’m sorry for this but: Grif and Simmons are retired, happy and married. Grif always thought with his bad habits, he’d be the one to go first. He was wrong. It was Simmons
> 
> A/N: Nothing about this was nice. NOTHING. WELCOME TO THE ANGST WAR, I SUPPOSE

"And you are first time homeowners?”

Simmons carries on some certain platitudes, explanations about moving around a lot and military retirement benefits being complicated. All true. All handled better than the manner which _Grif_ wants to handle it which is to spit at the ladies’ shoes for the insinuation that it’s unusual for such an older couple to be first time buyers. 

She doesn’t know the half of it. Most people in this area don’t know the half of it when it comes to Reds and Blues and Freelancers -- it’s the reason they’re moving here. 

It’s a shame because it genuinely is the apartment showing Grif has had the least to complain about. He can tell it’s the one Simmons wants. But the whole deal is starting out sour.

He makes an excuse about wanting air, heads out and isn’t even past the doorstep by the time his lighter and pack are out. 

Buying an apartment shouldn’t be this nerve wracking. Being outside of brightly colored armor shouldn’t be this nerve wracking. Finally being with just Simmons shouldn’t be this nerve--

“Hey,” Simmons says, the sound of a door closing behind him. “How’s the balcony?”

“A full on safety hazard,” Grif responds, looking over to him. “I think it might collapse with both of us on it, Simmons. Best if you continue on without me.”

There’s a tired twist to the way Simmons frowns, fanning the smoke away from between them. He tilts his head. “You keep this kind of stuff up, I might have to, Grif.”

“I’m an old soldier with bad habits, what can you really ask of me?” he says with a shrug. 

Simmons crosses his arms and waits for Grif to finish up his cigarette, every now and then looking to the screen door for their realtor. He looks back again at Grif and wrings his hands together. 

“I think it’s a really nice place,” he says predictably.

“It’s too big,” Grif counters immediately.

“We have a lot of junk, and a habit of collecting more,” Simmons huffs, as if he was just as expectant of Grif’s response as Grif was of his.

“It’s expensive.”

“We could pay in cash if we pulled our checks for the next two months together.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like anything.”

Grif meets Simmons’ eyes before looking back to the streets. “I noticed there’s not that many military people around here, but still some of your fellow gearheads.”

Simmons looks out to the busy street. “It’s not military heavy -- but it’s not far from a hospital specializing in prosthetics. Could be useful in the future.” He glares at Grif. “Y’know. In case you need _another_ lung at some point.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Grif runs his hand through his hair. “You like it that much, Dick?”

“Yeah, I do.”

As if he has a choice really, Grif nods. “Okay.”

* * *

A week into the move and Simmons’ estimate about their amount of junk turns out to be terrifyingly accurate. Grif isn’t sure if he’s ever seen so many boxes before in his life, which is why he decides that really the only thing to do is add a few pizza boxes to the mix.

When he returns, hot pies in hand, Simmons is still on his knees in the living room, digging through a box that clearly reads _OFFICE.  
_

 _“_ Hey, you freaked out when I was opening _BATHROOM_ in the kitchen earlier,” Grif reminds him, sliding the boxes onto one of the stacks of boxes. 

Simmons turns his robotic eye toward Grif, then to the pizzas, and then continues unpacking. 

“Yeah, well, you missed the fun part where I _started_ unpacking this one in the office only to find that it’s your game junk you’ve not used in three years,” Simmons says in a huff. “I can’t believe you actually got pizza, Grif.”

Flicking open the top pizza, Grif snorts, tearing off the first slice. “Okay, so when I said ‘hey I’m getting a pizza’ the general assumption was just that I was getting broccoli, I guess.”

“You don’t eat right.”

“And you’ve got another gray spot,” Grif says leaning forward to poke at Simmons’ hair. 

His eyes shift, though, to the noticeable quivering of his partner’s shoulders. He pauses, watching the shoulder’s spasms even as Simmons looks up and swats his hand away. 

“Did you lift that box by yourself?” Grif asks. “Why would you carry that all the way back out here?”

“It’s fine,” Simmons responds, self consciously rubbing at his shaking arm. It’s the mechanical one, Grif just knows it.

“Uh, no, Simmons. It doesn’t _look_ fine,” Grif says clearly. 

“The box had to be moved.”

“Not by yourself! Christ!” Grif growls, rubbing at his face. “Don’t do shit like that. Isn’t this why we hired movers?”

“Movers? The movers haven’t been here in three days, Grif! I swear, you would live in this apartment with nothing but unopened boxes,” Simmons grunts, waving to the boxes repurposed as a table for the pizzas. “Case and point.”

“My way is simpler,” Grif states. “Seriously, though, your arm--”

“Is fine,” Simmons says. “But I’d appreciate you getting the paper plates from the kitchen.”

Throwing his head back, Grif groans. “Fine, alright.” He finishes his first slice and jolts to the floor. “Only because it’ll be less work than having to pick you up off the floor later tonight if you don’t stop overworking.”

“Like you would pick me up off the floor,” Simmons snorts. 

“Good point,” Grif calls as he enters the kitchen and reaches for the plates. “You know, it’s really nonsensical to live in the fucking future and for us to not have anything better than _paper_ for disposable plates. I know what you’re saying: what about plastic and styrofoam! And let me head you off, because everyone knows that those aren’t nearly trashy enough to be the price of--”

He hesitates between the kitchen and living room. Looks around for Simmons only to see nothing. 

“Simmons?” he asks, stepping forward enough to see a prone form on the ground. 

* * *

"Stop that,” Grif orders.

“Make me,” Simmons says back, continuing to pick at the IV in his remaining human arm. He’s bruised green and blue and purple all across his arm -- when there’s a lack of viable human limbs, what’s left gets the full punishment.

His robotic arm is functioning again, but his leg hasn’t so much as twitched since the collapse. That has been over a week ago. 

“I _could_ make you,” Grif warns.

“You _could_ but you _won’t_ because that requires you to leave that chair,” Simmons says in aggravation. “Which you haven’t done yet.”

“Like you’d know,” Grif replies snappishly even as the doctor files in with a nurse. “You’ve not been awake all the times I _have_ been moving.”

Simmons doesn’t continue to humor him, turning to the doctor instead. “Good news, Doc? Ready to ship me home with a new spark plug or...”

Grif looks to the doctor. “If you get his leg to work but turn off his jaw somehow, that’d be _great_ for our marriage.”

Even in the light of a joke, the doctor seems progressively grim. 

“I’m afraid that returning your limb to function, Mister Simmons, is not as easy of a matter as ‘replacing a spark plug.’”

Grif crosses his arms grumbling. “And here comes the money talk.”

“Oh, okay then,” Simmons says, shooting Grif a warning look. “What all is it going to require?”

“That’s the thing,” the doctor says, looking over his palmpad. “It’s... We don’t even know. There’s... nothing at _all_ conventional about your implants and prosthetics.”

Simmons blinks, a bit surprised. “They’re... that advanced?”

“They’re _that_ shitty?” Grif says almost immediately after.

“They’re not by any means standard,” the doctor cuts to the chase. “And to be honest... with the amount of differing and, quite frankly, obsolete tech in there... there’s really nothing we can do to go about setting you up with new equipment without removing them.”

Grif slouches in his chair, looks at Simmons. “Okay, we can _now_ discuss pulling out of the rainy day fund.”

Simmons looks uncomfortably skittish at even the mention of such a fund. “No... we can’t,” he replies.

“For reasons beyond anything we can understand from the readout, it seems like even the most external of systems are attached to vital internal organs,” the doctor says, running a hand through his hair. “We... have no idea why but Dick Simmons’ heart, lungs, stomach, and even neural system is connected to various robotics. We’re not sure what to do and our attempts to contact the manufacturer and original doctor -- “ both Simmons and Grif look to each other “ -- have come up with nothing.”

“What are you saying?” Grif asks darkly.

“These parts aren’t running on solar energy like standard,” he says. “They’re running on his own internal energy and... quite frankly, at this age, your heart and spine aren’t strong enough to support what is essentially two bodies.”

Simmons takes a breath, but he seems, somehow, expectant. 

Grif stares at him. “We’re going to need a minute,” Grif tells the doctor without even looking to him. The physician gets the hint and leaves. Grif leans forward, furious. “You knew about this.”

“Of course I did,” Simmons says back. “I agreed to it.”

“Goddammit, Dick!”

“Calm down, Dex!” 

Standing up fast enough to fling the chair out from behind him, Grif threw up his hands. “From the goddamn grave he’s fucking us over. Are you happy you fucking lunatic!?” he cries out at the ceiling.

“He’s not--” Simmons recoils at the look Grif throws him and sighs. “He saved your life, Grif.”

“No, he fucked over _yours!”_ Grif roars. 

“There was no other choice!” Simmons snarls. “Your heart wasn’t strong enough to support it.” 

Caught off guard, Grif snaps his mouth closed. They hold each others’ eyes.

“You weren’t healthy enough, and what was healthy was too damaged. All we had was spare parts in Blood Gulch, the only medical support we had at the time was _trying to kill us_ , Sarge saved your life with what we had around.”

Grif holds up his pale freckled hand. “You mean _YOU!_ You were what we had around, Simmons--”

“Stop being melodramatic,” Simmons sighs. “People’s bodies give up on them. It’s part of being old.”

“No,” Grif growls. “Not this way. Freelancer did too much shit with us for us to take this one lying down.”

“Grif--”

“They’ll have Sarge’s records and I’ll figure out what’s wrong.”

“You won’t know what you’re looking at,” Simmons sighs. 

“ _Someone_ will, and it’s probably someone who owes us,” Grif says finally before turning and leaving. “And you know what, Dick? I never thought _you’d_ be the one to give up on us like this.”

There’s nothing said to him as he slams the door behind him and leaves for the apartment he’s not seen in a week.

* * *

She’s slightly surprised when he shows up at her home, but not in the way that would have gotten Grif punched in the face. 

Carolina tilts her head. “Caboose?”

“He’s got a handle on where _everyone_ is,” Grif announces. 

Her red hair is streaked in white, but her demeanor and decor are just as fierce and strict to protocol as Grif could have imagined. Truth be told, he’s still as scared of Carolina as the day she showed up in Valhalla.

“I heard about Simmons from Wash,” Carolina says as Grif follows her in. “I’m sorry to hear it. How bad is it?”

“Bad enough I need to know how many connections you still have to Project Freelancer,” Grif says with no tact.

There’s little more than a second before Carolina’s turned back around on him, eyes narrowed. 

“Project Freelancer doesn’t exist anymore. There _aren’t_ any connections.”

Grif folds his arms. “Except for with the UNSC who probably still has all their files.”

“Under classified -- Grif, how bad _is_ this?” Carolina demands. 

He looks her in the eyes, feeling smaller by the second, but he holds his ground. 

“I’m going to lose him,” Grif says. “Unless there’s something Sarge left on record that--”

Carolina shakes her head, almost in disbelief. “Grif... Sarge didn’t take records. Or, at least, nothing written by himself.”

“But he left logs! We all did!” Grif yelped. “To Red Command -- Freelancer Command-- Whatever. The Vic guy!”

Her mouth stays agape for a moment before she takes a low breath. “Oh... god, Grif. Freelancer... they didn’t _care_ about the Sim Troopers. Those weren’t... They weren’t _real_ recordings. They were a dummy system to keep combat simulations continuous. ‘Vic’ wasn’t a person -- ‘Vic’ stood for _Virtual Intelligence Computer.”_

Grif stares at her for a moment, completely unbelieving. He tightens his hands into fists.

“What the fuck, Carolina? _What part of my life hasn’t been a lie at this point?”_

She stares at him, her anger visibly growing. “The part with Simmons, Grif! And I’m assuming that if things are bad enough that _you_ of all people are asking about Project Freelancer, then he probably needs you! So get back to him.”

As usual, Grif hates her when she’s right.

* * *

It’s late enough that the hospital almost doesn’t let him back -- visiting hours are over, bed checks are being done. But Grif is nothing if not stubborn. 

He’s died on smaller hills for a hell of a lot less.

There’s no surprise when he opens the door to the overly familiar hospital room and finds that Simmons is still awake, even if he’s turned from the door.

Grif swallows. “I... Bet that position feels better. Not all the pressure and stuff on your parts...” he closes the door softly behind him.

“Not really,” Simmons says lowly.

“It doesn’t help?” Grif continues, slowly easing himself into the now cracked plastic chair. 

“Not with that,” Simmons says, staring at the empty wall. “Just the view.”

The insult bites a bit, but, well, Grif has learned to accept when he’s in the wrong. Sometimes. Just with Simmons.

“I get it,” he says. “I... wasn’t exactly supportive earlier with... with all this. I’m sorry.”

There’s a sniff and Simmons shifts. “Well, as usual, it’ll just have to be okay. It’s how _you_ feel about all this that matters, right?”

Grif swallows. “How can you say that?”

Simmons turns to his back, still not looking at Grif but rather the ceiling. His human eye is red and brimming with tears that aren’t a new development. “I don’t know, Dexter. How about asking how _I_ feel about this?” 

“Okay,” Grif says. “How do you feel about this, Dick?”

He looks at Grif -- almost like he’s looking straight through him. “I think it’s fine. I think I’d rather have these parts collapse on me decades later than have had them die on you _immediately_ in Blood Gulch and us never have what we’ve had since then. _That’s_ how I feel on this.”

Every word kills Grif piece by piece, he’s squeezing the armrests so tightly he can feel the plastic cutting into his palms. “I just can’t accept that,” he says flatly.

“Then how about you leave until you can,” Simmons snaps, turning back on his side. 

Everything’s wrong and Grif has nothing to say. So he leaves.

* * *

He stares at the boxes as he shuts the door behind him. He can still smell the pizza box from a week ago, which spells disaster for whenever Simmons comes home--

Grif’s heart hearts more with the after thought of that initial sentiment than he ever thought it could. 

He knows already that he can’t sleep, probably won’t sleep again for a long time, so he sits on the floor and starts unpacking.

Alone.


End file.
